


Intimidatingly swanky boots (amoung other garments)

by Tiefling_Writes



Series: Dorian Gray ficlets [3]
Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Basil has a gay Panic™, Crossdressing, Dorian in a dress, Drag, F/M, I tried to be historically accurate, M/M, Mr.Wilde I hope you're proud, Slow Burn, Victoria Wotton is wonderful and has No Time for her stupid husband's bs, corsets and the unlacing of said corsets, theres SO much pining, vaguely canon compliant though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiefling_Writes/pseuds/Tiefling_Writes
Summary: “What’s your opinion on, ah..” he twisted one of his silver rings back and forth as if pondering how to continue. A sigh, as he steeled his mind against potential ridicule—not that he thought his dear friend would turn on him so suddenly. “What would your opinion be on, ahem— on drag?”Though he was confused, the artist almost gave a sigh of relief. He had worried Harry might have shoved Dorian into some new moral dilemma again. “Dorian, I don’t particularly care what you do in your free time.”Or, Henry is tired of his friends pining for each other, so he takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Dorian Gray/Basil Hallward, Henry Wotton/Victoria Wotton
Series: Dorian Gray ficlets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838365
Comments: 2
Kudos: 45





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to Lils_20 who inspired this fic and was a huge help with editing and critique and all that fun stuff. I can confidently say that this fic would have taken at least another month if she hadn't kept encouraging me to work on it.

Lord Henry Wotton is not a manipulative man. He is only a man who knows what he want _and_ is capable of getting what he wants. Two things that, in his not-so-humble opinion, were sorely lacking in this day and age. What some might call a manipulative nature, he called intelligence and privilege, both of which he was privy to. 

In any case, he hardly wanted for anything but a pleasurable existence. Living day to day with all the vigour and hedonistic carelessness he’d so grown to relish. And yet, one almost non-selfish goal had worked its way into his mind recently. 

Dorian and Basil. Despite the pair's reservations, despite the restrictions of their times, despite polite smiles that betrayed what their eyes said, he could see their tension. Could chop through it with one Basil’s palette knives— no, he’d have to use at least a kitchen knife. One of those flimsy painting knives would certainly snap if it was made to cut through such a potent wall. 

A wall that simply drove Henry mad! How exhausting the two were! Always skirting around the other! Basil, too frightened to taint his muse—had he not seen his muse had already tainted him?—and Dorian, too unwilling to endanger his friend. So _sentimental!_ It was as Henry would always preach—though he’d never stand at the podium—their consciences made the two complete and utter cowards! Which, irritatingly enough, made them all the more perfect for each other. 

And that’s where his goal came into mind. _God_ , under any other circumstance it would be totally selfless. Except, this was being carried out by him, of course, it had a selfish motive. The only way to truly live is by selfish motives, after all. His selfish motive, in this case? His selfish motive was to keep himself from going mad! He swore,

If he kept seeing his two friends prance and dance around each other like some Shakespearean lovers, he might lock them in a crypt together so that they’d be forced into some amount of closeness. And then! Even then, they’d certainly stay on opposite sides, refusing to huddle for warmth, until the frigid night consumed them, leaving two tragic corpses behind. 

By all the gods in heaven, he swore he’d see the two together yet! Of course, Basil would have to make some sort of advance first, but the artist was far too shy for that. At least, he would be until an opportunity presented itself, or should he say a _temptation?_

Yes, temptation was all that was needed to steal hesitation from a man’s heart. But what could tempt _Basil?_ Dorian, obviously . The fair-haired Adonis had been unwittingly tempting Basil for ages. But what could make Basil take that next step, what could shove him over the threshold?

While pondering this, he saw Victoria walk across the parlour. She was wearing a new dress. 

-

“I don’t think he’d ever agree to that.” 

“Then don’t think—that’s a horribly tedious thing to do. Present the idea to him, at least.” Said Henry, before taking a long sip of wine. 

Dorian crossed his arms, a boyish pout on his face. “Well, what if _I_ don’t agree?” 

Henry didn’t respond and instead reached across the couch to poke the side of the youth’s lips. “Don’t pout, there’s no use in it. Besides, it mars your lovely face.” 

Dorian swatted at the lord's hands. “You haven’t answered me.” 

A sigh that went on for far too long. “I thought the answer to be rather obvious, didn’t you?” 

“You were just busy telling me _not_ to think.” Dorian pointed out, a smug look on the corner of his mouth like he thought he’d outsmarted his friend. 

Henry decided not to argue with him, any argument was lost as soon as it started, after all. “Tell me then, do you disagree? With the concept, not Basil’s participation.” 

The lad shifted, now sitting cross-legged. “Well, not with the _concept_ , no. You know I’ve dabbled in it before, just.. not around anyone other than you.” He uncrossed his arms, opting instead to hug a throw pillow to his chest. “You do need to return your wife’s dresses, though. Surely she’s noticed that two are missing?”

“Of course she hasn’t. All the dresses in her wardrobe never allow the doors to fully close, and she’s far too scatterbrained to realize anyway.” He sipped once more from his wine glass. 

“Harry!” Dorian swatted him with the throw pillow. “Why must you talk about your wife in such a manner?” 

Henry sputtered. He hadn’t swallowed all his wine before Dorian had swatted him in the face, though he quickly recovered with more poise than one would think possible for having just coughed up his drink. “Don’t take it to heart, dear boy! I’m sure you’ll marry someday—it’d be impossible not to with looks like yours—and then you’ll understand how husband and wife speak when the other isn’t around. It’s like a game, you see.”

Dorian shook his head, blinking as golden curls fell into his face. “I don’t see, and if I did I’d say it’s a cruel game to play.” 

Another drawn-out sigh. “Oh, when you’re aged and withered like me, you’ll understand.” The young lord stood up, stretching dramatically before he started to head for the door, ignoring Dorian’s protests of how he was barely any older. 

He paused at the door. “I hope you ask Basil before my next visit.” 

“You visit almost every day!” 

A wink. “Exactly.” And the door closed as the lord walked to his waiting hansom outside. 

Dorian slumped down, allowing his whole being to be covered by the couch cushions. He knew he didn’t have to do as Henry demanded— not even demanded, implied. The older man—barely older—was not his keeper, nor his father. No, he didn’t have to listen to a single thing he said! Still, he didn’t want to disappoint his friend. Even if he was confused by his request. Why did Henry want a painting of him in a dress so badly? 

‘It’s a trend in Paris.’ Was all the Lord had said to explain himself, which Dorian had a difficult time believing. Every time the lord wanted him and Basil to do anything that seemed far too outrageous, he would use the same excuse. And neither the youth nor the artist could disagree since neither had been back to Paris recently. Still, it was awfully convenient that every strange thing Henry wanted was a ‘trend in Paris’. Despite Henry’s flimsy excuse, and how he’d rather melt into his sofa right now, Dorian sighed and stood up. He should really go talk to Basil. 

-

“Dorian? _Dorian!_ ” 

The youth snapped out of his thoughts, blinking as he focused his eyes back on Basil. “Hm? I’m sorry, did I miss something?” 

The artist sighed and set down his teacup. “I had been rambling on about one of my newest projects for the last few minutes,” he said, fidgeting with a stray string hanging from his sleeve. “But if I was boring you so much, you should have said so.”

There was a sheepish smile on Dorian’s face as he shook his head slightly. “You weren’t boring me, I swear. Just have a few things on my mind, is all.” 

Another sigh. “Has Henry been saying things again?” 

“He’s always saying things.” 

“That’s fair.” Basil took another sip of tea, looking at Dorian over the edge of the cup. “So if it isn’t Henry, then what is it?” 

Dorian turned sheepish once again, averting his eyes. “ _Well,_ ” he shifted slightly. “It is partially due to Henry.” He chuckled slightly at the exasperated look Basil threw at him, before continuing. “What’s your opinion on, ah..” he twisted one of his silver rings back and forth as if pondering how to continue. A sigh, as he steeled his mind against potential ridicule—not that he thought his dear friend would turn on him so suddenly. “What would your opinion be on, ahem— on drag?” 

Though he was confused, the artist almost gave a sigh of relief. He had worried Harry might have shoved Dorian into some new moral dilemma again. “Dorian, I don’t particularly care what you do in your free time.” 

It was Dorian’s turn to sigh in relief. Now on to his riskier question, which he wasn’t quite sure how to ask. Luckily, Basil did it for him. 

“What does that have to do with Henry?” 

Dorian took an unnecessarily long sip of tea. “He wants to commission you for a portrait of a man in drag,” he continued, speaking slightly quicker now. “That man being me— apparently paintings of the sort are a ‘trend in Paris’.”

Another very long, very drawn out, very exasperated sigh. More so at hearing ‘a trend in Paris’ than of the request itself. “Harry and his Parisian trends. What does he want it for? He couldn’t openly display it without causing some scandal.” 

Dorian shrugged. How was he supposed to know what Henry wanted the painting for? The man had skirted around answering until Dorian gave up his questions. “I haven’t the slightest clue. I’m sure he knows not to display it, though.” 

“Yes, let’s hope.” Responded Basil, before he finished off the last of his tea. It crossed his mind that he might require something stronger than lemon and orange peel tea soon. 

“So you’ll do it?” Dorian gaped. At best, he’d expected his friend to flat out refuse, on the grounds of keeping a semi-respectable reputation, which Dorian would have completely understood. And at worst, he worried his friend would refuse to talk to him again. 

“Since it’s Henry’s commission, I’ll discuss payment and all the boring details with him.” Responded Basil, which vaguely translated to he would interrogate Henry of his motives until he got tired of it, because the lord surely wouldn’t answer with anything other than vague esoteric musings, but asking questions would make Basil feel better about himself. “Of course, you’ll only be sitting for the portrait, so don’t fret about that, you’re a wonderful sitter.” 

Some may take this as a sort of backhanded compliment. Being a wonderful sitter, that is, being exceptionally good at looking pretty and doing nothing. Dorian, however, smiled as his beauty was complimented and finished off the rest of his tea as well.

For the next hour, the pair sat in relative silence, occasionally cracking a joke about much safer and less taxing topics than Henry and his trends. 

-

It was clear that despite occasionally wearing women’s clothing, Dorian had no experience in choosing women’s clothing. And despite being married to a wonderful woman, Henry had no clue about women’s fashion either. Perhaps the most helpful—though he also barely knew a thing—was Basil, who could at least point out how difficult or easy it would be to paint the patterns on certain dresses. 

The trio stood around rather awkwardly in the middle of a London boutique, trying and failing to understand the jargon a chipper seamstress—her name was Lucy—informed them of, while also asking far too many questions of why they were there in the first place. 

“Who might be the lucky lady? This must be a surprise gift, correct? You gentlemen must be out of your depth here, but worry not!” She chirped, gliding around the tiled floors like a teal on a pond's surface. 

Henry tried to look like he knew what he was doing. “Yes, it’s a surprise—what about this one here?” He gestured towards a black dress that ruffled near the front. 

Both Lucy and Dorian cringed. “God no! That’s something a woman would wear during a time of mourning-“ 

“Absolutely not! The corset it’s paired with looks deadly-“

There was a giggle from the seamstress and she looked towards Dorian after hearing his comment about the corset. “So you’re the lucky man, eh? Everyone in London knows you’re quite the bachelor, have you finally settled down with a ladyfriend?” 

“I-“ 

“Oh, don’t tease him about it. He’s flustered as it is.” Basil cut in, saving the lad from having to stutter out a believable lie. His cheeks were already stained red. 

Lucy only chuckled. “Of course, sirs. Forgive me. Why don’t you look around the shop for a bit? I’m sure Mr.Gray has an idea of what his ladyfriend likes to wear. Come back to the counter when you’ve chosen something, and I’ll fit the dress to her measurements—which I’m sure you have.” The seamstress turned back to her work tables, humming a tuneless sound as she looked over materials, occasionally running her fingers over swatches of fabric. 

Henry, more than amused, lightly pushed Dorian in the direction of a few mannequins, whispering near his ear as he did so. “Go on then, choose a dress that your _ladyfriend_ will like.”

A sigh, and the lad went on browsing though the various dresses. He avoided large bustles and too-tight corsets, along with puffy sleeves—which Basil was grateful for, he didn’t appreciate the amount of shading some of those sleeves would take—and stiff shoulders. 

Finally, he came across a yellow-cream coloured dress. It sported a lower neckline and forearm length sleeves, along with beautifully abstract rose decals going from the waist to the ground. The boy also admired a pair of shoes displayed under it—similarly coloured heels with shiny bows, along with smaller painted roses littered around. _They were perfect._

“I do think I’ve found something.” He glanced over towards Basil. “What do you think, Basil?” 

“Beautiful texture. I’m glad you didn’t choose something ruffly—that would have been hell to paint.” This was, in the artist's mind, a compliment. 

“Oh? A painting?” All three men—though Henry tried to hide it—were startled by the seamstress who’d seemingly appeared behind them. “Must be serious then. Mr.Gray, how long have you known the painting's subject?” 

He cleared his throat, in that way one does when they’d like to do anything but talk. “Well— practically.. practically my whole life, i—I’d say.” 

Henry didn’t comment, but he believed that Dorian had only truly known the painting's subject for a little under two years– that was, of course, when he had first met the lad.

A dreamy sigh. “So childhood sweethearts then? How perfect!” The seamstress conjured a clipboard from what seemed like thin air—although it was only from the self-made pocket of her dress—and tapped a pencil on the edge of it. “Now then, since you’ve chosen the dress I just need your ladyfriend’s measurements.” 

Luckily the trio—mostly Basil—had the foresight the night before to take Dorian’s measurements. He relayed these numbers to Lucy, who’s brows were slightly furrowed. 

_A unique figure_ , she thought about Mr.Gray’s ladyfriend. Based on her numbers, she must be slightly stockier than the average woman, while being of average height. The mysterious woman would have to have somewhat broader shoulders as well— though not by much. Well, she certainly hoped to see Mr.Gray’s companion one day, if only to see that the dress fit her physique properly. “Well,” she said, setting her clipboard onto a work table. “You can come by in three days, Mr.Gray! All necessary adjustments will be made by then.” 

“Wonderful, thank you.” Dorian paid the seamstress—originally the plan was for Henry to pay since it was his commission. However, Henry paying for Dorian’s ‘ladyfriend’ would arouse more suspicion that necessary—and walked out of the boutique with the other two men.

As Lucy went to work, she chuckled lightly, looking over to the suit section of her boutique. _How peculiar,_ that the measurements Mr.Gray had given her were almost identical to what she’d use for tailoring men’s wear. How peculiar indeed. 

-

Lord Henry went home that night feeling quite satisfied with himself and his actions, as he always did, but more so now than usual. 

“Harry, you’re back late.” Victoria was seated in their parlour, holding a teacup that had clearly been empty for quite a while. 

Henry didn’t apologize— he never did. “I had to help Basil with something today. Took a bit longer than expected.” 

She feigned taking a long, drawn-out, sip of tea. “Don’t fret, dear. I know that dress shopping can be time-consuming.” 

A lesser man would have choked on air. Henry, however, cleared his throat and managed to look somewhat composed. He wouldn’t deny it, no, only a fool would do that. “How did you know?” 

“People talk, Harry. You forget I have friends too, like a seamstress who was visited by yourself and your friends earlier today.” She set the cup down and laid her hands neatly in her lap, a pleasant smile on her face. “Tell me something, Harry.” 

His voice was somewhat strained. Most wouldn’t notice, Victoria did. “Ah— anything, dear.” 

“According to my memory—which is impeccable—“ 

“It certainly is—“ 

She held up a hand.“Ah, ah, not the time for flattery.” She began again. “According to my memory, your two best friends consist of an emotional artist, who happens to be an indiscreet repressed homosexual and a third-rate crossdresser. Both of whom are almost ten years younger than you, so, is there something you’ve been hiding from me, Henry?” 

“I-“ Henry cleared his throat. “what do you want me to say?” 

A short laugh. Victoria stood up, her skirts brushing against Henry as she walked past him. “Nothing, dear. Nothing at all.” 

As she left the room, Henry collapsed onto a chair. The lord stared into space for quite a bit after that. 

-

Soon enough, Dorian had his dress and shoes, and stood in Basil’s studio, in the same spot he’d sat for other paintings and sketches before. 

The artist walked around, making last-minute adjustments before he started painting. An extra rose here, an added accessory there, instructing his model to hold his fan at a different angle. Amoung these changes, he also decided to drape a sheer lacy veil over Dorian’s head and face, as a way to obscure the youth’s identity should anyone besides Henry see the painting. 

“I can’t see anything.” 

Basil rolled his eyes as he walked back to his canvas. “Yes you can, the material is incredibly sheer. Besides, you don’t need to see anyway, you’re standing still.” 

“We will be taking breaks though?” 

The artist had already started sharpening a sketching pencil. “Hm? Yes of course. Just say when you need one. I’m about to start the sketch, will you get into position, please?” 

His muse complied and sat upon the cherrywood stool he’d been provided. He settled himself into the position Basil had described to him; skirts gathered to his right side where the folds of fabric would create a wonderful shadow to contrast the golden light streaming in from the window, ankles crossed with the toes slightly pointed so to display the rose detailing of the shoes, left hand neatly resting in his lap while the right held a closed fan in front of his lips as if he were shushing someone unseen. A beautifully overwhelming scent of tulips and roses pervaded through the air, giving the lad’s posture an unintentional rigidness as he tried not to swoon from the strong scents. His somewhat broadened shoulders and sharpness of his features contrasted sharply—while still complimenting—the feminine clothes he wore; he was a paragon of androgynous beauty. 

“W—“ Basil cleared his throat, feeling strangely thankful that he couldn’t look into Dorian’s eyes. “Wonderful,” he choked out, “stay just like that.” And he began his newest masterpiece. 

—

“Basil. _Basil. Basil!”_

“Uh-“ the artist finally snapped out of the deep concentration he’d been in, looking over to Dorian. It was then he realized the room's lighting was significantly less golden than before and much dimmer too. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

Dorian nodded before lifting the veil from his face and stepping off the stool. “All afternoon, actually.” 

Basil glanced at the window, noting that he could no longer see the sun. “Ah. I’m sorry about that, I just got lost in the painting I suppose.” 

“May I see?” 

“I,” Basil paused for a moment, “I think I’d rather you see it upon completion, sometimes these look worse before they look better,” he said, draping a tarp over the canvas. 

He seemed slightly put off but didn’t press further, instead nodding and walking to a small room where he could change back into his other clothes. “Well, I’m sure it’s still beautiful,” he said before closing the door. 

“Yes, it is.” murmured Basil, gaze lingering on the door. 

-

Only a few brush strokes away from the finished product, Basil thought with a smile as he added a deep purple to the dress's shadow. He stared at his palette, looking between two shades of yellow that seemed almost identical; they were not. One would make the fabric look beautifully golden, while the other would set his progress behind by at least an hour. He could not remember which was which. Why was he caught in this constant cycle of hubris, thinking that he’d be able to tell the two shades apart when the time came to do so? 

As he contemplated this, he didn’t hear the door to his studio open and only broke out of his scrutiny when he heard Dorian gasp. “Dorian?” he looked up from the palette, “are you quite alright– oh.” 

He now saw the problem; Parker stood frozen in the doorway, holding a letter. Oh dear.. he hadn’t told his servant not to disturb them that day. 

Parker seemed to understand, or at the very least, didn’t want to ask questions. He kept his head down, placed the letter on a table, and exited the room, closing the door behind him. 

Basil set down his paintbrush, wringing his hands as he looked over the canvas at his muse. “Dorian? I-I’m very sorry about that. I forgot to tell him not to disturb us today, but I can assure you that Parker will not say anything. I’m very sorry—“ 

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” announced Dorian, his voice thick and strained, like he was about to cry. He stepped down from the stool, practically tearing the sheer veil off his head. Once he did so, it became clear that his eyes were bright with barely held back tears. 

“Wait! Dorian, well it’s your choice— really. There’s still plenty of daylight left, but if you’d like to retire for the day I suppose the rest can wait until tomorrow—“ 

“No.” Dorian shook his head, blinking rapidly. “I mean I’m done with- with all this!” He gestured at his skirts, and the single click of a heel on the floor indicated that he’d stomped his foot as well. He was acting like a petulant schoolboy and he knew it, and he couldn’t be bothered to care. “I’m done with this whole ordeal with- with dresses and skirts and heels and-“ he paused. Now that the veil was off his head, it was clear that his cheeks were flushed red with embarrassment. “It’s all terribly silly anyway! Having a hobby that can only be seen by few and behind closed doors. I’m sorry Basil, I can’t sit for you anymore like this.” He huffed, hitching you the skirt so he could make it to his makeshift dressing room quicker. 

The artist stood, stock still, as he watched Dorian hurry off. He could technically, finish the painting without Dorian here. It would take not more than an hour to complete, and then everyone would have what they wanted. Or only Henry would, if all he wanted was the painting, that is. 

So, Basil continued painting as his friend undressed in the other room. Which only started becoming a problem after almost forty minutes had gone by, and Dorian still had not come out. 

He set down his paintbrush once more and went to knock on the door. “Dorian? Are you quite alright in there?” 

He was met with nothing. No sound whatsoever. The artist pressed his ear to the old wooden door, straining to hear something; and he did. A quiet, muffled sobbing. A wet, gasping sort of sound, that was often interrupted by a high pitched hiccuping. “Dorian, I’m coming in.” 

He was greeted by the sight of his model curled up on the floor, knees drawn up to his chin and his back pressed against the large mirror. The youth had shed all his skirts and had put his trousers back on, but not his shirt. As he heard the artist coming into the room, he looked up, uncurling slightly. It was then Basil could see that he still wore the corset, which seemed almost half drenched with sweat. 

“It won’t come off! The ties today– they’re too tight and I’m unable to undo the knots and-“ tears began flowing once more as he hurriedly tried to wipe them away. He took several shaking breaths before attempting to speak again. “Basil, you have a knife, don’t you? Or scissors?” 

“That’s drastic,” said Basil, walking slowly over to his friend, like one would approach a lone fawn in the grass. “Why don’t I try to unlace it before we resort to sharp objects?” 

Dorian huffed, turning his back to Basil. “You can try. I wouldn’t have let Harry tie the laces if I knew he’d make them like this.” He gestured approximately at the knots. 

Now that Basil could see the corset’s back, he understood why Dorian had so much trouble undoing the garment. The ribbons were so tightly pulled that they were almost invisible, except for the bow that brought them together. Even so, calling the gnarled knot a _bow_ would be generous. It was something more like hopelessly tangled fishing line. “One would think that Harry would have some competence when it comes to lacing corsets, he’s the married one after all.” He knelt behind Dorian and began his attempt to untie the ribbons. 

–

Ten minutes, and the ribbons were only half undone. It was still progress. 

Somewhere in those ten minutes, Basil had leaned closer to better see the knot. So close, that Dorian’s hair kept falling into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He went to push a golden lock from his eyes, pausing as he felt his friend freeze up, before relaxing once more. “Pardon me, the hair was just in my eyes.” 

“It’s alright. Are you almost finished?” The youths' voice seemed strained and oddly high pitched. 

Basil winced, figuring that the corset must be extremely uncomfortable if it was causing his friend so much strain. “About halfway there, another ten minutes and you’ll be free.” 

–

“There,” said Basil, pulling apart the final knot. This one had been twisted so tightly that the artist had feared scissors would be needed. Luckily this was not the case. 

“Thanks, Basil,” said Dorian, finally taking a full breath. He reached behind, starting to loosen the rest of the ribbons that had not been knotted, but pulled very tightly. 

Basil lightly pushed his hand away, “Don’t bother– I’ll do that. Besides, your arms probably hurt from being in this for so long.” He knew that didn’t make sense, why would a corset cause pain in someone's arms? Still, Dorian didn’t contradict him and the artist went back to loosen the rest of the ribbons. 

At last, the garment was loosened and as Basil stood up to leave the room, his gaze lingered on his muses shirtless back, his fingertips tingling from where they'd brushed against porcelain skin. 

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to head to the door when Dorian’s voice distracted him. 

“Don’t feel pressured to leave,” said the youth, his face flushed red. “It’s your house, after all.”

Basil stood there and swallowed thickly. "Yes– I, I suppose you're right." He didn't exit the room, but he did lock the door. 


	2. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come on, did you really think Henry wouldn't take the chance to tease the new couple? What did you take him for, someone with subtlety?

Early that morning, Basil had told Henry his painting would be finished by mid-afternoon. Now Henry was hardly one to show up early, but he was, dare he say, eager? To see if his friendly meddling had finally taken effect. 

As he walked into Basil’s studio, he noted that the painter and Dorian were nowhere to be found. Of course, his first instinct was to ascend the stairs to knock on Basil’s bedroom door, then the guest bedroom after that. Even when pressing his ear to the doors, he heard nothing. And upon opening the unlocked doors, he discovered that no one was present. 

As he made his way down the stairs once more, the lord supposed that anyone else might be worried about the fate of his friends. Where could they be? Basil’s palette was still wet with paint and the bristles of his paintbrush hadn’t dried into an unusable paint-covered shell of itself, so they couldn’t have left too long ago. 

He could have called out their names, but that would alert the pair–if they were here at all–to his presence, and what good would that do? 

Just as he was about to leave the studio to search out Basil’s servant to ask of the pair's whereabouts, a thump caught his attention. He glanced about the room, eyes landing on a closet door he hadn’t seen before. Ah, that would be it. 

The lord strolled languidly to the closet door and jiggled the doorknob.  _ Locked _ . A smirk spread across his face as he heard the sound of footsteps and then complete, utter silence. Things were only ever that silent if someone was trying to hide something. “Basil? Dorian?” he called, “would either of you happen to be in there?” 

There was a long stretch of silence before he heard Dorian’s response. 

“Ye–” a horrible voice crack, followed by a cough. “Yes. I’m inside here. In the closet, yes.” 

Henry didn’t try to hold back his chuckle. “Ah wonderful, I was worried you’d gone missing. Now, where would Basil be?” 

There was another long stretch of almost silence, though by pressing his ear to the door, Henry could just hear urgent whispers that he couldn’t quite understand. Then, he heard Basil’s voice. 

“I’m… in here as well.” 

“Ah! Wonderful, I’ve found you both.” He jiggled the doorknob once more. “Would you mind opening this door?” 

“I’d rather not!” 

“Whyever not?” He knew full well why not, or at least he believed he knew––which was as good as fact in his mind––but he did love watching or, rather, imagining, the two squirm with discomfort. 

“Well– uh–” Basil tried to stammer out an explanation. 

Henry put a hand up, though he knew they couldn’t see the gesture. “No no, it’s quite alright. I’ll come to collect the painting tomorrow. I’m sure you’re both attending to  _ very _ important business, so I’ll be on my way.”

-

The next morning, Henry came to collect the painting and have a drink with its painter and his muse. He noted with delight that the pair leaned against each other, and without the aid of wine.

“You know,” began Henry, taking a sip of wine, “I think this painting looks better in your house than it does in mine, Basil. You should keep it.” 

The artist gaped, it seemed that, for a moment, he was incapable of forming words before finally sputtering out a “ _ What?”. _

He continued, “you’ve already paid for it you should get to keep it, why on Earth do you want it to stay with me–”

Henry waved a hand dismissively. “Painting’s of the sort have already gone out of style, you know how short-lived some trends can be.” 

He explained it away so flippantly and, frankly, neither Basil nor Dorian had the mental energy to argue. So Basil only raised his glass in a half-toast. “To short-lived trends, I suppose.” The other two men echoed that sympathy. And as they all fell into silence once more, Henry couldn’t help but smile into his cup. 

_ He was always quite good at getting what he wanted.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe Dorian and Basil did nothing in that closet. Maybe they were playing truth or dare. Maybe sharing spooky stories. Who knows?

**Author's Note:**

> This took an absurd amount of time to write, and that is because I procrastinate for a living.


End file.
